


Body, Heart, Soul

by AgentStannerShipper



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: 1920s, Arthurian legend - Freeform, Blow Jobs, I apologize if that upsets anyone, I may or may not have stolen some names that other people use for Merlin, M/M, Regency, Reincarnation, Renaissance Era, Sex Magic, Shakespeare would be so proud of me, Soulmates, but ironically not really au, late medieval era, seriously this is a mess of modern and oldish style writing, shameless mangling of history, tgc, ttss but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-13
Updated: 2017-12-13
Packaged: 2019-02-14 06:10:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13001514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentStannerShipper/pseuds/AgentStannerShipper
Summary: There is a saying about relationships withstanding the test of time. For some couples, this means something a bit different than others.





	Body, Heart, Soul

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MHMoony](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MHMoony/gifts).



> Hope you like this, because it was a lot of fun to write.  
> Not betaed or Brit-picked, so let me know if there's anything wrong.

2017

Harry shudders when the singing cuts off and the explosion rings out. Eggsy looks like he wants to scream or cry or lunge after Merlin, but he stays still like a professional. Harry takes one deep breath and tells himself that everything is going to be fine. They have a mission, and that is first priority, but the moment it’s over, the very first moment that he is no longer on the clock as Agent Galahad Sr., he is going to go searching for his husband. Because he knows what it feels like to lose Merlin. And that was not it.

 _I’ll find you,_ he thinks fiercely. _I will always find you_.

 

1953

His name is William Harry Haydon and he is seriously debating making a decision that could ruin his life. Of course, he said that about the joining the army too, and that turned out well enough. Although, Jim might disagree with him on that one.

He’s staring at an old photo album when he hears the knock at his door. When he answers, Jim walks in without pause, pushing past him and into the living room.

“Make yourself at home,” Bill mutters under his breath, but there’s no harshness beneath the words.

Rather than shoot a quip back at him, Jim asks, “When were you planning on telling me?”

Bill freezes in the living room doorway. Jim folds his arms and raises his eyebrows. Slowly, Bill enters and settles down on the couch. He debates denying it, but Jim isn’t an idiot. “How long have you known?”

“I wasn’t sure until today, but lately you’ve been…distracted. I know you, I know that isn’t like you. So I did a little digging.”

“Did you tell the Circus?” Bill has to ask. He’s tense, expecting the door to bang open again any minute and his flat to be flooded with agents looking to put him in handcuffs for treason.

Instead, Jim shakes his head, “I didn’t tell anyone. You covered your tracks well, and I…I went in and buried everything a little farther. Someone would have to be very determined to uncover any of it, much less link it back to you.”

Bill sighs in relief, but Jim says sharply, “You didn’t answer. When were you planning on telling me?”

Bill pauses a second too long, and Jim nods. “Right. You weren’t.” He sits down on the sofa next to Bill, far enough that he feels the distance like a physical ache in his soul.

“I was going to tell you,” he says defensively. “When…when I’d made my decision.” It rings hollow. He’s not sure he would have told Jim, and he knows Jim can tell from his voice.

“This isn’t a decision, Bill,” Jim says softly. “The fact that you’re even thinking about it…”

Bill swallows hard, because Jim is right. Jim is always right. He rests his head in his hands. “Does this make me a bad person?” he asks softly.

“Depends on why you’re doing it,” Jim says.

Bill looks up at him, and Jim blinks serenely back. “The system doesn’t work,” he says. “The Americans, the Brits…they’re all just scrabbling in the dark. The Russians at least might have a chance at straightening this world out.”

Jim nods. “Alright,” he says. Bill isn’t sure if Jim is agreeing with him, or if he just accepts that this is the answer Bill believes.

“What now?” he asks.

“What do you mean?”

“You aren’t going to turn me in,” Bill says. “And I’m…I’m going to do this.”

“Alright.” Jim slides closer to him on the sofa, close enough that their legs and shoulders are pressed together.

Bill moves away, “If they catch me, they won’t believe that you weren’t involved.”

Jim raises his eyebrows, “Who said I wouldn’t be involved?”

Bill’s stomach sinks, “I can’t ask you to do that.”

“You’re not.” Jim’s gaze is steady, as always, and Bill always knew that Jim would follow him anywhere, but he hadn’t realized that included across the Iron Curtain (figuratively speaking).

“Jim…”

Jim pointedly moves closer again, and Bill is backed against the arm of the sofa, so there’s nowhere he can go. “If you think this is better,” he says, “then I trust you.”

“And if I’m wrong?”

“Then at least we went down together.”

That familiar warmth in his chest, the one that always glows a bit brighter when he and Jim are in sync, lights up, and Bill wraps his arm around Jim’s shoulders and leans against him, their temples pressed together. “If you’re sure,” he says, giving Jim one last out.

Jim doesn’t take it. “I’m sure.”

Bill leans forward, plucking a decanter of Scotch off the side table. He pours a finger’s worth into each of two glasses, and then passes one to Jim. “To betraying a country,” he says softly.

Jim clinks his glass against Bill’s, “To following your heart.”

 

1926

Harry squints, shielding his eyes against the sun shining off the water. He’s been standing here an hour now, so he’s used to the smell of fish and salt water, but he shudders to think what the wind is doing to his hair. The ship he’s waiting for finally, _finally_ pulls into port and lowers the gangplank.

Harry bounces on his heels, stretching and wincing as the blood flow returns to his stiff legs. He watches as people disembark: families with children, ladies in dresses appropriate for traveling, men in business suits. The men are the only ones of interest to him.

His patience is finally rewarded in the form of long legs in pinstripe trousers, a bald head shining in the sunlight in a way that Harry would absolutely mock him for it he wasn’t so relieved to see him. Harry just barely keeps from throwing himself at the other man, and Hamish “Merlin” Grey rewards him by throwing an arm around Harry’s shoulders and whispering into his ear, “Happy to see me?”

“Always,” Harry tells him.

“What’s it been, six months?”

“Seven,” Harry mutters. He shrugs off Merlin’s arm, because people are starting to stare at them, “Why don’t we go back to my place?”

“Lead the way,” Merlin purrs, as if he wasn’t intimately familiar with the way to Harry’s flat from just about anywhere in the city.

Roxy looks up from where she’s lounging on the front step when they get to Harry’s apartment building, stubbing out her cigarette and grinning, “Hey, Hamish. You here to see Uncle Alistair?”

“I might pop in later,” Merlin tells her, “but I’m actually here to see Harry this time.” He claps Harry on the shoulder.

Roxy’s smirk proves that she’s not fooled by the casual gesture. She jerks her head towards the stairs, “Don’t let me keep you, then.”

“Tell everyone hello from me,” Merlin says.

“You back in town long?”

Merlin eyes Harry, who holds his gaze. Without looking away, Merlin says, “At least a few months. Maybe longer, if I can find an incentive to stay.”

“Well, Harry’s door is always open,” Roxy says.

“I’ll thank you not to invite guests into _my_ flat,” Harry chastises her. “Don’t you have work to do?”

“Not today.” She lights up another cigarette, and offers the case out to Merlin, “Want one?”

Merlin reaches for it on instinct, and then looks over at Harry again and withdraws. “No, thank you. Harry doesn’t like it when I smoke.”

“Doesn’t usually stop you.”

Merlin shrugs, “When he’s being gracious enough to host, I think it’s important to be a polite guest.”

“No fun,” Roxy flicks ash at him.

“We’ll see you later, I’m sure,” Harry says. Roxy waves goodbye as Harry leads the way up the stairs. “She’s right, you know,” Harry tells Merlin as he unlocks his door.

“Pardon?”

“My door is always open. For you, I mean.” He opens the door and ushers Merlin in. “I apologize for the mess.”

Merlin glances around at the stack of dishes in the sink and the papers and books scattered across every flat surface. He heads for the desk, pulling out the chair and sliding into it, sprawling in a way that Harry can only describe as elegant. “Working on a new project?” he asks, poking at a few of the papers with his foot.

Harry draws them away from him, gathering them up in his arms and moving past Merlin to put them on his desk. “Just playing around with some ideas,” he says stiffly.

“What happened to the last one?”

“Hit a roadblock,” Harry says. He straightens the stack.

Merlin slips off his shoe and runs a foot along Harry’s, locking his ankle and tugging him backwards. Harry stumbles, and Merlin snags him, arranging Harry in his lap before Harry can so much as blink. He teeters unsteadily for a moment before Merlin guides Harry’s arms around his neck. Harry tries to glare at him, but the effect is lost as Merlin grins at him and Harry melts.

“One of these days,” Merlin murmurs, “you’re going to have to finish a novel.”

“Nonsense,” Harry scoffs. “My parents give me a very healthy allowance to keep out of trouble and not embarrass them.”

“What would they say if they could see you now?” Merlin teases, rubbing his nose against Harry’s affectionately.

“I imagine they’d be relieved that at least the male partner I’ve chosen is away for long periods of time, rather than always hanging around,” Harry says, not quite succeeding in keeping the bitterness from his voice.

Merlin sighs, “Harry, we’ve talked about this. I have to travel for work. With prohibition in America-“

“I don’t want to talk about your work,” Harry says. He tries to slide out of Merlin’s lap, but the other man holds on.

“I don’t want to fight,” Merlin says. “Please?”

Harry slumps forward, tucking his face into the crook of Merlin’s neck. “I know,” he whispers. “I know you can’t help having to travel. I just hate it when you’re gone.”

“But I always come back,” Merlin says. “I can’t help it. Something about this place just draws me back here every time.”

Harry laughs, “Stop teasing.”

“I mean it,” Merlin says, and he sounds surprisingly earnest. “When I’m away from you…it’s like there’s a physical ache in my chest.”

That’s a feeling Harry knows all too well. He tries to climb off the chair again, and this time Merlin lets him. Harry bends over him, opening the bottom drawer of the desk and pulling out the bottle he keeps there especially for when Merlin is over. He pours them both a glass and sits on the desk, propping his feet on Merlin’s lap as he downs half of it in one go.

Merlin sips at his own glass. “I’m back for the foreseeable future,” he says. “It’s not forever. I’ll have to go back to work eventually. But for now, I’m all yours.”

“I’m always yours.”

“Don’t sound so bitter,” Merlin murmurs. He sets his glass down and stands up, propping his hands on the desk and leaning over Harry. He presses a kiss to Harry’s lips, and then whispers, “I’m yours too. Always and forever.”

 

1814

Harry sighs and adjusts his collar. His mother has been making that face all afternoon, the one he knows means he’s about to be violently shoved into the path of some poor – but very rich – girl who in all likelihood is at most half his age the moment he descends the stairs. He really, really hates balls.

It doesn’t help that his mother, as usual, is hosting this one, so he can’t even find solace in one of the other rooms because the guests will be all over his house.

He makes small talk as little as possible, and then escapes to the gardens the first moment he can, disappearing while his mother’s back is turned. He loves the gardens; they’re his favourite part of the estate. He can spend hours here, watching the butterflies alight on flowers, free in a way he can never be.

“There you are!” His mother finds him after perhaps twenty minutes of blissful solitude, save for a few servants making their rounds and a handful of guests sneaking out in a most scandalous way (not that Harry particularly cares for gossip). She’s accompanied by, as expected, the young woman of the night. She’s a pretty thing, Harry supposes, long sandy-brown hair done up in the latest style, warm brown eyes blinking slowly, her dress modest while still being fetching in a beautiful blue that accents her skin tone. If he were a few decades younger and interested in marriage, he would perhaps be tempted, but as it is he just pities the young woman.

“This,” his mother says, “is Miss Roxanne Hadley. Miss Hadley, this is my son, Mr. Harry Hart.”

She sinks into a perfect courtesy, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Hart.”

“The pleasure is all mine, Miss Hadley,” he responds with a bow, not because it’s true but because he is first and foremost a gentleman and he doesn’t need a lecture in manners from his mother tonight.

“Why don’t I leave you to get better acquainted?” his mother suggests.

“No!” Harry immediately protests. To cover it, he says, “Come now, Mother, you did raise a gentleman, and it would be unseemly for a man of my stature to be seen, unsupervised, with a girl I just met.”

“But you wouldn’t be unsupervised,” his mother says. She gestures to a man Harry hadn’t noticed before, standing half in shadows behind the two women, his face completely neutral. “This is Mr. Hamish Campbell, Miss Hadley’s guardian. He’ll ensure you don’t do anything improprietous. Not,” she adds sharply, “that I expect that to be an issue.”

“Of course not, Mother,” Harry says. He has no intention of doing anything with Miss Hadley, improprietous or otherwise.

“Good,” his mother says, and scurries back to her party.

Campbell takes a step forward into the light, throwing his sharp features into fine contrast, and Harry’s heart skips a beat. He tells it firmly to behave, and bows shallowly. Campbell doesn’t so much bow as incline his head, which Harry would normally find rude if he weren’t so intrigued. “You’re Miss Hadley’s guardian?” he asks.

“Aye,” Campbell responds. His voice is thick with a Scottish brogue that surprises Harry, especially given his ward’s lilting accent to match Harry’s.

“Hamish isn’t really my guardian,” Miss Hadley says. “I’m under the care of my uncle. But he’s away on business at the moment, and Hamish is one of his most trusted friends. He’s so close, we consider him part of the family, and he’s like an uncle to me himself.”

“Is that so?” Harry asks. “You’re not from England, are you, Mr. Campbell?”

“What gave it away?” Campbell asks, but he’s smiling, so Harry takes it as a good sign.

Miss Hadley steps on his foot, and Harry is going to pretend that it isn’t intentional. After all, she is a lady. “Be nice, Merlin,” she hisses, then smiles at Harry.

“Merlin?” Now that’s interesting. Something in Harry’s chest wakes up and pays attention, because that name feels familiar, and not just because he has read the tales of King Arthur and his knights many times over, but on a deeper, more personal level.

“A family nickname,” Campbell explains.

“An interesting one,” Harry says. “Do you read Arthurian legend?”

Campbell nods, “I’ve always been fascinated by it.”

“Myself as well,” Harry says.

Miss Hadley looks back and forth between the two of them, and Harry startles, realizing he’s perhaps paying a bit more attention to her guardian than he should be. He’s treading dangerous waters here, and he can’t afford to offend Miss Hadley, lest she go running to his mother, or worse, the freshly-married elder sisters of the wealthy families who have little to do with their time but gossip. Harry has a reputation, and he will not besmirch his family name.

Slowly, Miss Hadley says, “Mr. Hart, I noticed your family has a great love of artwork.”

Harry wouldn’t say they love artwork so much as his parents like to be seen as connoisseurs of the arts. They commission everything from busts to paintings. “We do enjoy seeing life blossom from a master’s hand,” he says, because it sounds adequately pretentious.

“Hamish draws,” she says. “He’s a very skilled artist. He can capture my very soul on paper in a way none else can.”

“Roxanne is, of course, exaggerating her report of my talents,” Campbell says smoothly. “I sketch infrequently, nothing more.”

“Do you paint?” Harry feels himself compelled to ask.

He’s rewarded with an arch of Campbell’s eyebrow, but he answers, “Not often, and not very well, but I dabble.”

“Perhaps you would be interested in coming to paint me,” Harry suggests before he can help himself. “My parents keep attempting to commission portraits of me, but I find most artists are abhorrent to work with. If you have the time, of course.”

“I’m what they call a confirmed bachelor in polite company,” Campbell tells him, a hint of amusement in his voice. “I have little else but time.”

Miss Hadley looks equally amused, and she cuts in. “Mr. Hart, if you don’t mind my forwardness, it would not be unwelcome on my part if you were to call on me in the future.”

Harry blinks in confusion, because it’s a sharp deviated in the conversation. Miss Hadley raises her eyebrows pointedly, her eyes flicking to Campbell. “Of course,” she says, “we would need to be accompanied by a chaperone at all times.”

The pieces slide into place in Harry’s head, and he coughs. “Of course,” he repeats. “It would only be proper.”

“Lovely,” Miss Hadley says.

“Lovely,” Harry echoes. His eyes are still fixed on Campbell, who is watching him with curiosity and hope in his eyes. His heart makes a valiant effort to tear itself from beneath Harry’s breast and find a home in Campbell’s chest instead.

Miss Hadley turns to Campbell, “If Mr. Hart ever requests to see me again, I should like it very much if you were to watch over us.”

Campbell inclines his head. “Anything for you,” he says, but he’s still looking at Harry.

Harry takes Miss Hadley’s hand between his own and bends, pressing his lips gently to the back of it. “I would be honoured to call upon you again, whenever is most convenient for you.”

“Tomorrow?” Miss Hadley suggests. Campbell shoots her a look, and she smiles cheekily. “Perhaps a picnic. Merlin can even sketch you in the sunlight, and you can see if you really do want to commission him for a portrait.”

Harry reaches out, “I look forward to it.”

Hesitantly, Campbell takes his hand, and flickers of fire race up and down Harry’s arm, sinking into the very core of his being and settling, like the other man belongs there. “As do I,” Campbell says softly. “As do I.”

 

1596

“Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania.”

“What, jealous Oberon! Fairies, skip hence: I have forsworn his bed and company.”

“As if,” Emrys snorts.

Harry rolls over and whacks him with his script, “How am I supposed to memorize my lines if you keep interrupting to make quips?”

Emrys grins at him, then throws a leg over Harry’s waist and pins him to the bed. Harry tilts his head back and lets Emrys press a row of kisses along his neck. Against Harry’s pulse point, Emrys whispers, “Tarry, rash wanton: am I not thy lord?”

Harry gasps as the words, in Emrys’s rough brogue, shoot through him, and he arches up against him, breathing out, “Then I must by thy lady.”

Emrys pulls back, and Harry whines, but Emrys just smirks down at him where he’s perched on Harry’s hips. “See?” he says. “You know your lines.” He pushes a hand back through his floppy black hair, and Harry, nonsensically, thinks he looks the perfect picture of Oberon like this, proud features and playful eyes, and he loves him all the more for it.

“Maybe so,” he says, “but practice makes perfect.”

“Fair enough,” Emrys responds.

Harry props himself up on his elbows. “You know,” he says, “this may be the last time we get to play lovers. We won’t be teenagers forever.”

“You mean,” Emrys purrs in his deep, rough voice, “sooner or later your voice will catch up to mine?”

Harry blows a curl out of his face, and says, “I’m not sure I’d call it catching up. But any day now Unwin will be the one playing your leading lady, and I’ll be resigned to your right-hand man.”

Emrys threads his fingers through Harry’s and drags his hand down, pressing it to the front of Emrys’s leather trousers and groaning softly. “I don’t know,” he murmurs, his voice thick with arousal, “I don’t think I’d mind you as my right-hand man.”

Harry twines his legs with Emrys’s and flips them, pressing the hands they have linked over Emrys’s head. The moonlight streaming through the window bathes Emrys in pale, grey light, making him glisten like silver dew drops, enhancing the fae aura as his lover grins up at Harry and stretches out the other hand to join them, Harry’s fingers releasing and then curling around both of Emrys’s wrists. Like this, he can almost believe his lover really is magic.

He drags his palm down Emrys’s chest, loosening the strings on his shirt so he can suck bruising kisses into the flesh and Emrys sighs. He moves lower and recites from memory, “If you will patiently dance in our round and see our moonlight revels, go with us; if not, shun me-“

“Not for thy faerie kingdom,” Emrys hisses between clenched teeth as Harry presses his lips against the bulge in his trousers.

“My line,” Harry teases. He releases Emrys’s hands, and his lover moves one to Harry’s hair, tangling in the curling locks. Harry leans into the touch, then unlaces Emrys’s trousers and slides them down his hips, so that heated flesh springs forth.

Emrys groans in frustration when, rather than wrap his lips around him, Harry comes back up for another kiss. “Graze on my lips,” Emrys quotes when they break, “and if those hills be dry stray lower, where the pleasant fountains lie.”

“Are you trying to tell me something?” Harry teases. But he takes pity on his lover and drops lower again, pressing his lips against Emrys’s length, trailing kisses along the side. “O happy dagger,” he whispers, “this is thy sheath.”

Emrys growls at him, and Harry laughs, sinking down properly, letting Emrys’s erection fill his throat, pushing down until he’s practically choking on it, and Emrys groans, the hand in Harry’s hair tightening as he bobs on his lover’s length.

Emrys whispers his name like a prayer, and Harry redoubles his efforts, pushing Emrys closer and closer to the edge, humming around him until Emrys gasps and spills down his throat. He swallows every drop and then pulls off. His voice is almost as rough as Emrys’s when he says, “I will live in thy heart, die in thy lap, and be buried in thy eyes.”

Emrys strokes his hair soothingly, as if in apology for pulling so hard on it. “Don’t let Shakespeare hear you say that,” he murmurs. “He might steal it for his next play.”

“I’m serious,” Harry insists. He drags himself upright, and Emrys sits up too, lacing his trousers as he frowns at Harry. “Without you, my world would cease to turn.”

Emrys shakes his head, “Don’t say that, Harry.”

“But it’s true,” Harry insists. He knows Emrys is uncomfortable; it’s one thing to share a bed, a passion, but it’s quite another to share a heart. “You don’t have to feel the same,” he says, “but-“

“Don’t have to feel the same?” Emrys repeats. “Please don’t doubt my feelings for you. Fate brought us together, and only fate could ever separate us.”

Harry hadn’t truly believed in fate until he met Emrys. But the moment he locked eyes with this beautiful young man, it was if the love potion of this play had been dusted over his eyes. Although perhaps that is a bad analogy; magic or otherwise, there is nothing false about how Harry feels for Emrys.

“I love you,” he says, because acting is about the truth of the soul, and there is no greater truth than that.

Emrys hesitates, but then he draws Harry close, wrapping his arms around him. Into his ear, Emrys whispers, “I love you too.”

 

1296

“Callum?” Harry asks hesitantly when, after several hours of searching the castle top to bottom for his wayward lover, he finds him scrubbing the residue of bird nests out of the northern turret’s thin window.

The other man’s reply is stiff, and his motions become more vicious as he responds, “Yes, my lord?”

Harry is very glad he’s not literally bird excrement right now, no matter how much Callum is making him feel like it emotionally. The ache in his chest feels cavernous, like Callum has stolen his very lifeblood. He sighs, “Please don’t be like this, darling.”

“Don’t call me that,” Callum snaps, avoiding his gaze. “Sir,” he tacks on, and the formality makes Harry wince, no matter how biting the word is.

Harry tries again, “I don’t see why you’re so upset-“

“My people are going to die!” In an explosion of anger, Callum rounds on him like a feral dog. “They’re going to die because _your_ king can’t keep his armies to himself. And you expect me to be _happy_ about that?”

Harry opens his mouth, and then closes it. Callum does not lose his temper easily, which means he either feels very strongly about this, has been thinking about it for a long time, or both. Weakly, he says, “You’re here with me. You’ll be safe.”

“For god’s sake,” Callum sighs, and Harry gasps at the sacrilege. Callum ignores him and continues, “It’s not about me being safe. It’s about my people deserving to have their way of life without having to fight against some greedy king bent on taking it away from them.” He slumps against the cold stone, looking abruptly exhausted. “I don’t expect you to understand, Harry.”

Callum’s right, Harry doesn’t understand. They’re so far removed from the fighting that it seems silly to dwell on it. But it’s clearly important to Callum. “Make me understand,” he pleads.

Callum looks away, and Harry reaches for him, taking Callum’s chin in one gentle hand and turning it so he has to look at Harry. “Please,” Harry says.

The other man leans into the touch, almost against his will, and his eyes flutter shut for an instant before he says quietly, “What if I was still there?”

“Still in Scotland?”

Callum nods, “What if I hadn’t been headstrong and reckless and come knocking on the door of an Englishman’s castle looking for work? What if I’d stayed in my village instead of coming here to you?”

“What about it?” Harry asks.

“I’d be fighting that war, Harry,” Callum says. “Not everyone has the luxury of sitting and watching the battle from a comfortable seat in a stone tower while servants handfeed them.”

Harry winces, “You were the one who suggested the handfeeding, darling. And I really don’t like it when you use that word for yourself.”

“Would you prefer serf? Peasant? I’m not like you, Harry. I wasn’t given a fancy castle and a position as lord just because I had family connections.”

“The Hart bloodline is ancient and full of honourable warriors,” Harry says defensively. “My family earned our position.”

“And I suppose farming isn’t glamorous enough for that,” the words sound like Callum’s agreeing, but there’s a twist to them that Harry recognizes. This is a sore spot between them. “It’s not as if farmers are the ones who feed hungry lords like you.”

“Darling-“

Callum sighs, “I’m sorry.”

Harry shakes his head, “Don’t apologize.”

“Some lords would cut my tongue out for such impudence,” Callum says.

“And those lords are cruel and heartless,” Harry says emphatically. His voice softens, “And they aren’t in love with you.” He takes Callum’s hands in his and squeezes them gently, “I adore you, my darling. I love you with every breath in my body and every drop of blood in my veins and the entirety of my soul. There is not an inch of me, flesh and spirit, that does not love you.”

Callum squeezes back, “Tha gaol agam ort. Bidh gaol agam ort fad mo bheatha thusa’s gun duine eile.”

Harry speaks almost no Scottish Gaelic. He speaks almost nothing in any Celtic language at all, his tutors having favoured the Romantic languages in his studies. But he does know this much. This is what Callum whispers in his ear at night when the candles have burned down, so that their shadows slink across the walls, less two men and more one single being depicted in the low light, two halves to one complete soul.

“No one else,” Harry repeats. He leans his forehead against Callum’s. “Just you.”

He doesn’t know it they can make it work. They’re both men, although Harry is not the eldest brother, and so producing an heir does not fall to him, and that is one less complication for them to deal with. Callum, in the eyes of most people, works for Harry. The class difference is so great there may as well be a wall between them. But Callum is the only person Harry has ever loved. The only person he can ever imagine loving.

He and Callum might not see eye to eye on the war, but this is a battle that God himself couldn’t stop Harry from fighting.

 

510

Galahad hands his horse off to one of the stable hands and stalks into the castle, his armour clanking loudly against the stone floors. Servants duck out of his way as he moves past, until he gets to the throne room, banging the doors open before the herald can so much as announce his arrival. He kneels, “My King.”

Arthur makes him stay there a moment longer than strictly necessary, before he says, “Rise, Galahad. What news have you brought me?”

“There is no sign of Le Fay,” Galahad tells him. “Percival and Lancelot are still searching, but her magics hide her too well.”

Arthur sighs, “That is a pity.” He shifts on his throne, “Why are you back, if the others are still out looking for the witch?”

“Your Majesty,” Galahad says, making an effort to not spit the words, “I’m here to ask that you rethink your position. Merlin’s magics-“

“I will not have you bringing my wizard out into harm’s way,” Arthur says. “He stays in the castle, where he can protect his king.”

“What if I were to suggest that he stay here, but that I bring some of his magics out to aid us in the search?”

Arthur looks interested, if a bit wary, “Is such a thing possible?”

“With all due respect,” Galahad says, “it is Merlin we’re talking about. Possible is not a word that applies to his work.”

Arthur nods. “He is in his library, as always. See him, and find something that may aid you in your search.”

Galahad bows once more, “Your command is mine to obey.” He backs out of the room.

He does not go straight to Merlin’s quarters. He first divests himself of his armour, and then takes a long bath. It wouldn’t do to greet an old friend smelling of sweat and dirt from so long traveling. Only when he is clean and dressed in a light tunic and a pair of leather trousers does he go in search of the wizard.

Merlin’s library is, as always, quite dangerous to step into. Galahad has to dodge several flying books before he takes more than two steps into the room. He clears his throat and waits patiently for the wizard, bent over his writing desk, to surface from his work.

Eventually, Merlin turns, and his whole face lights up when he sees Galahad. The door behind him slams shut and locks, and as if by magic they are propelled into each other’s arms. Galahad curls his fingers around the back of Merlin’s neck and kisses him earnestly. “I missed you,” he whispers against his lips. “I thought of you every day we were apart.”

“I walked through your dreams,” Merlin murmurs back. “So tempted was I to reach out and touch.”

“Why didn’t you?”

Merlin pulls away, a playful smile on his face, “The spell is not that advanced. Not yet.”

“But you’ll get there,” Galahad says. “I have faith in you.”

Merlin leads him over to the fire, spitting blue flames, and sinks into an armchair. Galahad takes the one opposite, a footstool sliding neatly under his feet the moment he lifts them. “Does Arthur know you are here?” Merlin asks.

“He knows.”

“Then this must not be a social visit,” Merlin says. “The king would never let you near my chambers if he didn’t believe he could benefit in some way. He’s very jealous of you, you know. He doesn’t like me using my powers for anyone but him, least of all you. He thinks you’ll try to steal my magics to overthrow him.”

“Then imagine how distressed he would be in he knew what it is we really do here together,” Galahad purrs, pleased at the slight flush that spreads over the wizard’s cheeks. The fire changes from blue to deep purple. Merlin’s magic is tied into his emotion, and his passion for Galahad sends it soaring to new heights every time they see each other.

Merlin smiles lazily at him, but he nudges the conversation back, “What are you here for, Galahad?”

“A spell,” Galahad says. “What else?” He leans forward, “Percival, Lancelot, and I have been entrusted with the search for Morgan Le Fay.”

“I am familiar with your quest,” Merlin nods. “Arthur said when you set out you requested that I come with you?”

Galahad nods, “I thought you might be able to track a sorceress better than three non-magical knights. I believe I was right; I returned to see if Arthur might change his mind to any extent. He budged, so I’m here for a tracking spell that might have better success than we have.”

Merlin stands and moves over to his desk, pushing papers aside. Galahad gets up and moves to follow, ducking as a book flies off the shelf and into the wizard’s hands. He flips it open and bends over the table, propping himself up on his elbows. Galahad comes up behind him, but quite frankly none of the words in the book make any sense to him.

“I can make a talisman that will track her magic,” Merlin says, as much to himself as to Galahad. “If she’s using them, it will sense it, and point you in her direction.”

“How long will that take?”

Merlin turns to look at him, lips quirking into a sly smile. “Certainly all night,” he says. “Would you like to come back for it in the morning?”

“Or,” Galahad suggests, “I could retire to your chambers? I’m very tired from traveling so far, and I’m afraid I might not make it as far as my own rooms.”

“Then by all means,” Merlin gestures towards the door that leads to his bedchambers. “I would hate to have such a brave and honourable knight collapse from exhaustion.” He presses a lingering kiss to Galahad’s lips, and then pushes him gently towards the door, “Let me get to work on your talisman. I’ll be by shortly to ensure you haven’t fallen ill from such exhaustive labour.”

Galahad shares Merlin’s smile, and exits into Merlin’s bedchambers. They look much as he recalls, curtains drawn over the windows to cast the entire room in a red glow, a large four-poster bed in the centre heaped with plush pillows at the top. It’s not so much for Merlin’s benefit either, Galahad knows. He’s the one who had complained, the first time he spent the night, that Merlin’s bed was horribly uncomfortable. Since then, he sleeps better in Merlin’s room than anywhere else.

He really is tired, his legs aching from riding, and he strips off his tunic and trousers and climbs under the covers, settling comfortably. The room smells like wax and honey, and he’s almost asleep when the door opens softly and Merlin steps into the room. The candles by the bedside jump to life at his presence, and Galahad slowly blinks his eyes open. Merlin sets two bottles on the table by the bed, then strips and pulls back the blanket, sliding onto the bed next to Galahad.

“Turn over,” he murmurs.

Galahad does so without question, and in his periphery he sees Merlin draw one of the bottles to his hand, and he follows it with his head, twisting to see Merlin pour the liquid inside into his palms. He rubs his hands together, warming it, and says, “Relax, Galahad.”

Obediently, Galahad slumps back against the bed, and Merlin straddles his thighs, his hands going to Galahad’s shoulders and massaging firmly. Galahad groans and buries his face in one of the pillows and Merlin works his way down, his hands kneading at the sore muscles in his back, past the curve of his arse and all the way down his legs slowly and methodically, until Galahad is completely pliant. When he’s done, he helps Galahad turn onto his back, boneless as he is, and begins to work at his neck and chest.

“Your hands are magic,” Galahad mumbles.

Merlin smiles, “I’ve been told that before.” He works Galahad’s front as methodically as his back, ignoring the place where Galahad’s body is beginning to stir in interest. Galahad just sinks into the bed and allows his lover to work his magic, his hands warm and soothing even when his touch is rough.

Eventually, Merlin sets the bottle of oil aside, pressing a kiss to the corner of Galahad’s lips. He retrieves the other bottle, which shines silver when the thin beams of moonlight, peering around gaps in the curtains, hit it. Galahad props himself up slightly as Merlin uncorks it. “What sort of potion have you brewed for me?” he asks curiously.

“Not just for you,” Merlin says, “and not if you don’t wish it.” His voice is serious, not hint of playfulness in his voice.

Galahad frowns, “What’s wrong?”

“I fear for you,” Merlin says. “When I cannot see you, my heart reaches out, but it cannot find you.” He swirls the liquid, “So I’ve been making this.”

“What is it?”

“A love spell, if you wish.”

“But I already love you,” Galahad says.

Merlin shakes his head, the smallest smile on his lips, “Not that sort of love spell.” He traces his hand down Galahad’s body, wrapping briefly around his erection and stroking, making Galahad shudder with pleasure before releasing it and sliding his fingers back up Galahad’s chest, his fingers marking sigils in the oil still coating his skin. “When you are with me, I have you, body, heart, and soul. As you have me. But when you are gone, I have nothing but whispers of dreams.” He holds up the bottle again, “This spell will tie you to me, and I to you, so that no matter how far we apart, in time or space, I will always find my way back to you.” He cups Galahad’s cheek gently, “But only if you wish it.”

Galahad nods. “I am yours,” he says, “Body, heart, soul, across time, across space, in this life and the next.”

“You’re sure?”

Galahad nods, “How does it work?”

“Half for you, half for me. Sealed with a kiss and sparked with passion.”

Galahad laughs, “Only you could make such a love potion.” He sits up fully, pulling Merlin closer so that the wizard is properly in his lap. Merlin’s eyes shift in the low light, from brown to green to blue to the same silver as the potion in his hand.

Merlin guides the bottle to Galahad’s lips, “Don’t swallow.”

“I never thought I would hear you speak those words,” Galahad teases.

“Be serious,” Merlin murmurs, and Galahad sobers. Merlin tips half the bottle into Galahad’s mouth. It tastes like he imagines starlight must taste, white hot and burning.

Merlin empties the bottle into his own mouth, then kisses Galahad’s, who opens up for him easily when Merlin’s tongue presses past his lips. The potion swirls between them, and Galahad hitches Merlin closer as Merlin grasps their erections and begins to stroke. His touch feels like lighting, and Galahad clings to him in hopes of riding out the storm.

He doesn’t remember reaching his peak, doesn’t know what happened to the potion, whether he swallowed it or if it spilled out of his mouth or disappeared by magic. He rises back to consciousness half under the blanket, Merlin curled up beside him.

“How will you know if it worked?” he asks Merlin softly.

“Can’t you feel it?” Merlin whispers. He places a hand over Galahad’s chest, “There I am.”

Galahad feels for it, finds a place in his chest he hadn’t known was empty, but is suddenly full of light and warmth. “I’m with you,” Merlin says. He takes Galahad’s hand and places it over his own chest, “And you are with me.”

“Body, heart, soul,” Galahad repeats, like an incantation.

Merlin nods, “Across time and space.”

“In this life and the next,” Galahad finishes. He draws Merlin close, and kisses him. The heat of two souls, or perhaps two halves of the same soul finally joined, burns brightly in his chest.


End file.
